He Had a Bad Day
by Freya-Kendra
Summary: You think you've had a bad day? Think again! Nothing could be as bad as this particular day for Little Joe.


**He Had a Bad Day**

XxXxX

**1**

She slit his throat. Joe couldn't believe it. She actually slit his throat. How could she do that? _Why_ would she do that? He'd thought she was going to help him. Maybe breathe some air into his starving lungs, or at least give him a sweet good-bye kiss. But no. She leaned up real close, so close he could smell tea on her breath, and then she smiled that come hither smile of hers, rubbed her hand through his hair…and slit his throat.

There had really been no point. He figured he was probably already dying anyway. Broken ribs were one thing, but when one of those messed-up ribs is on the verge of puncturing a lung that had already been messed-up itself, thanks to all the water he'd inhaled in the river…well, not even a world-class doctor like Doc Martin was likely to fix a thing like that. And if that weren't enough, that bullet in his thigh seemed to have nicked an artery. It was a small nick, based on the fact he hadn't bled out yet, but a nick, nonetheless.

Of course, he wouldn't have ended up with messed up lungs if Cochise hadn't caught his foot in a gopher hole and thrown Little Joe right into a raging river at the point of a flash flood. And he wouldn't have ended up with broken ribs then neither. But the way that river had bounced him around from rock to rock…well, broken bones were inevitable. It wasn't only his ribs he'd broken, either. But a broken ankle and a busted arm weren't going to kill him.

He couldn't blame the bullet on the river, though. No. He would never have ended up with that bullet in him if he hadn't dropped his gun, and he wouldn't have dropped his gun if he hadn't pinched the heck of his finger in the trigger, and he wouldn't have pinched his finger if the trigger hadn't jammed, and the trigger wouldn't have jammed if he'd had his own gun to start with.

Now for that he had to blame Jesse Mueller. Old Jesse just plain insisted Joe's gun needed some fine tuning. He wouldn't give Joe a moment's peace until Joe agreed to let him tune it up. He kept saying Joe could end up dead or dying in the street on account of his gun not firing faster than whatever low-life varmint was gunning for him that day, and it would all be Jesse's fault for not making sure Joe got his gun all tuned up. So Joe had given Jesse his own gun, and he'd gotten a loaner to hold him over until his gun was all shiny and new again.

Trouble was, that loaner was in worse shape than Joe's, so when Harley Jones found him in the alley behind Doc Martin's office all fired up about Joe stealing his girl, the hawk-nosed spinster Eunice Barfinender, and then Joe laughed on account of the fact she drank whiskey like it was water and was always smoking cigars…well, Harley got mad and drew on Joe.

Now, normally, that would not have been a problem. Joe was faster than anyone, and Harley was about as slow on the draw as anyone could be. But Joe was feeling like a drowned rat, wheezing like a hundred-year-old geezer, and walking like Stumpy Wilson, that cowboy who got his foot blown off when he got into that fight with his buddy Pesky Petersen over the best uses for pulque. Joe certainly hadn't been in any shape for drawing on anyone, especially with his shooting arm broken. And then that dang trigger jammed, and, well….

When Greta Thompson sauntered by in that tight-fitting, red satin dress of hers, he dared to hope that maybe, just maybe he could survive after all, what with Doc Martin being just the other side of that wall over there. But then she did what she did, slitting his throat and all.

He supposed he should be thankful she had such a delicate touch. Seems she must have missed his jugular; otherwise, well, he probably wouldn't have so much time to think back on what had to have been the worst day of his life. Probably the worst day anyone could possibly have.

**2**

Winston Thornapple figured this had to be about the best day of his whole life, although it hadn't started out that way. He'd been awfully upset when all the other boys got to funnin' him for crying on account of that dumb old Mary Margaret O'Donnell punching him in the stomach. But now all the other boys were looking at him like he'd just gunned down Big Bad Bart, the most notorious outlaw in the territory. What really happened was almost as good: Winston Thornapple had found a real live dead man.

"Show us!" Gilbert Smithers demanded, his eyes as wide as wide can be.

"Yeah! You got to show us!" Karl Johansson added.

Winston was grinning from ear to ear the whole way back to that alley. When he stopped at the edge of the street and turned to tell the boys this was the place, he saw that they'd towed a whole crowd right along with them. Every kid from the schoolhouse was there. Miss Jones was sure gonna be angry, but that was okay. Winston could handle getting in trouble. Nothing was going to ruin this day.

"You sure he's really dead?" Bobby Beauregard asked.

"'Course he's dead!" Mary Margaret answered, putting her hands on her hips and rolling her eyes like Bobby was the dumbest kid in town. "Look at all that blood! No one can bleed all that blood and not be dead."

"I don't know," Bruce Hawthorne leaned into the alleyway, even though he made sure to keep his feet planted right where they were.

"Did ya' touch him?" Jerry Finkleman asked.

"Naw," Winston answered. "Why would I want to touch him?"

"To prove he was dead, silly!" Prudence Maryweather declared.

"Yeah!" Gilbert said. "You gotta prove to us he's dead!"

_Dang_. Winston's best day was starting to cloud over already. "Why do I gotta prove it?"

"You're the one who found him," Jerry said.

"Yeah!" Gilbert added. "You're the one who found him!"

"Well!" Mary Margaret crossed her arms in front of her, and pulled her mouth down, sort of angry-like. "If you were too chicken to check before, I'm sure there isn't any way you're going to be any braver now."

Karl pushed his shoulder. "You ain't, are you? Chicken?"

Winston looked at all the kids, and then looked at the dead man, and then looked back at the kids again. He sure didn't want to touch a dead man. Wasn't that supposed to be bad luck or something? But if he didn't, they would start funnin' him again. Was there some other way to prove the dead man was dead?

Bobby kicked a stone into Winston's ankle. "Aw, you're too yellow."

"Yeah!" Gilbert agreed. "You're yellow. That's what you are."

But they didn't bother Winston now, because that stone had given him an idea. He squatted down to pick up a handful of stones, and then rose back to his feet, took a deep breath, and threw one right at the dead man.

"You missed him!" Karl complained. "You throw like a girl!"

Gritting his teeth, Winston threw another stone.

"You hit him right in the face!" Rebecca Parker exclaimed, clapping her hands in front of her.

Winston liked Rebecca Parker, and seeing her smiling at him like that, like he was a great big hero, well, it made him smile, too…right up until Mary Margaret ruined the day again.

"Aw, he isn't dead at all! He twitched."

"What do you mean, 'he twitched?'" Winston asked.

"He twitched. When you threw that stone at him, his cheek twitched."

"No it didn't, neither!'

"It most certainly did."

"Do it again," Bobby told him. "I want to see if he twitches."

"He ain't gonna twitch," Winston argued, "on account of the fact he's already dead."

"He most certainly _is_ going to twitch," Mary Margaret insisted.

Gritting his teeth, Winston took another deep breath, and then threw another stone.

"There!" Mary Margaret said. "You see? He did it again. He twitched."

Winston still hadn't seen the dead man twitch, so he threw another stone, and still another. He must have thrown ten or fifteen little stones before everyone saw a whole lot more than twitching. The dead man raised his hand, like he was swatting at flies.

Prudence and Rebecca screamed and ran back toward the schoolhouse. Most of the other kids just stared, with their mouths hanging open—Winston included—until Gilbert whispered, "You reckon he's a ghost?"

"'Course he ain't no ghost," Jerry whispered back. "Ghosts don't look like that."

"What do ghosts look like then?" Gilbert asked.

"How should I know?" Jerry answered. "I ain't never seen one."

"Then how do you know he ain't one?"

"I don't know. He just ain't."

"You bunch of no account cowards!" Mary Margaret chided. And then she did something none of the rest of them was willing to do; she pushed right past Winston and walked on into that alley until she was close enough to that dead man to see his face.

"Oh, my heavens!" She exclaimed then. "It's Little Joe Cartwright!" She turned to her classmates, put her hands on her hips and shouted. "Didn't you hear me? It's Little Joe Cartwright, and he ain't dead yet, but he's sure gonna be if one of you idiots doesn't run and fetch Doc Martin! Well, go on, then! He can't die before I've had a chance to grow up enough to make him want to marry me!"

And just like that Winston Thornapple's best day ever was ruined again, all on account of Mary Margaret and her big mouth, blabbing on to the whole town that she had single-handedly saved Little Joe Cartwright right when he was on the brink of death.

Only…it wasn't long after that his ruined best day turned out best again, all on account of him being the first to discover Little Joe Cartwright had been the victim of some sort of dastardly crime. When Sheriff Coffee escorted him to the jailhouse with a hand draped across his shoulder, telling him how important it was for him to remember everything he saw…well, Winston could feel the eyes of every boy in town staring after him in envy.

**3**

Doctor Paul Martin wasn't one to complain, but he was about as tired as he could be when they brought in Little Joe Cartwright looking like he was on the very brink of death.

"What on earth caused all this?" Paul asked, frustrated.

"Don't know," Petey Parker said while he and Jesse Mueller set Joe down on the doc's operating table. "Kids found 'im like that."

"Well…." Paul let out a heavy sigh as the two men showed themselves out. "I suppose I'd better get to work." But he sure was tired. Agnes Frimple had kept him up all night with that baby of hers; it had been too stubborn to get born…maybe more stubborn than that young man lying on Paul's table right now. "You are a stubborn one, aren't you, Little Joe?"

Surprised to see young Joe's eyes come open, Paul's eyes widened as well.

"Doc?" Joe said softly.

He sure did look pitiful. Joe's eyes and those acrobatic brows of his gave him about the most pitiful look the doc had ever seen. It was the kind of look that made all the young ladies swoon and all the young men want to draw on him. It was also the kind of look that made Ben give in when he shouldn't, letting Little Joe have far too much rein. _In fact, that's probably why Joe's here right now_, Paul decided. Ben let him do what he ought not to have done. And now Paul was going to have to suffer for it, too.

"Poppycock!" Paul pounded his fist on the table in front of him, emitting a pain-wracked moan from his young patient. "Oh, uh, sorry Little Joe." He cleared his throat and then set about doing what was necessary to stem the flow of blood.

But 'what was necessary' was about all he was going to do, right then. There was a lot of hard work ahead of him with this particular patient; and Paul needed a rest and a good, solid meal before he could devote himself to fixing everything that needed to be fixed. Once bandages and tourniquets were in place, Paul patted Joe lightly on his arm, pulling his hand back in a hurry when Joe's cry reminded him that particular arm was broken. "Sorry, Joe," he said for the second time. "Tell you what, son. I'll be back in a little while." He yawned. "A little nap and some food, and I'll be as good as new."

"Doc?" Joe said, a confused look further accentuating the pitiful one.

"Oh, don't you worry, son! I won't be long." He patted Joe's broken ankle, apologized again, and slipped out the door.

XxXxX

Struggling not to cough, Joe forced himself up onto his good arm. Minutes later, when the room stopped spinning, he tried to get a good look around him. Surely the doc couldn't have gone far. He wouldn't have; would he? Maybe…maybe he went to send someone after Joe's Pa. Yeah. That must be what he was doing.

Convincing himself he was right where he needed to be, Joe started to lay back down. But then he had to cough again; and this time he couldn't do anything to fight it. He coughed until the pain was so great he very nearly passed out. But he didn't. He didn't pass out. He fought against it, knowing that with everything he'd been through already, he didn't dare. Somehow, he just didn't trust that his bad day hadn't quite gotten bad enough yet.

Even as he had that thought, he chuckled. How could it possibly get any worse?

XxXxX

**4**

Big Bad Bart wasn't nearly as big as rumors had him out to be; in fact, he was downright small. But the 'bad' part was surely true. He scared those folks in the bank so completely he just knew they wouldn't dare go screaming for the sheriff until he was halfway to Carson City. Trouble was, just 'cause he knew it didn't mean it had to come to be. As it turned out, he wasn't even halfway down the street when some old bitty started caterwaulin' about him robbin' the bank and killin' some fella' named Hugo. What kind of name was that, anyway? Hugo? Sounded like someone who could hardly speak English: "_I go here; hu go there_."

Bart shot back toward that bitty and kicked his horse's flanks, driving the animal into an alley that led on into the next street over; but before he made it to the other side, he caught sight of the sheriff's badge out yonder. That wasn't gonna do. Nope. Not at all.

Jumping down off the saddle, Bart landed in probably the only mud puddle in the entire dusty town. Only…that weren't mud down there, was it? When he swiped at the splatters on his trousers, he saw that the mud on his fingers was really blood, and he very nearly lost his stomach at the sight. He could shoot folks just fine; now getting any of that blood on him…well, that was a whole 'nother thing.

"Hey! You, there!" the sheriff shouted at him.

That was enough to get Bart thinking clearly again. He shot off a couple of rounds toward the sheriff, and then hurried back the way he'd come, barging into the first door he could find…which happened to be the doc's office. And the fella' on the doc's table there must surely have been the one who lost all that blood in the alley, judgin' by the look of him.

"Dang," Bart said, swallowing bile. "You sure are a sight!"

"We know you're in there, Bart!" the sheriff yelled in at him. "You'd best come out before you make things worse'n they already are."

Shaking his head, Bart sighed and holstered his weapon. "But I reckon yer about all I got to go on, right now." A wounded man as a hostage might not move too fast, but he should at least keep folks from shooting at Bart while he made his getaway. But a hostage should be tied up; and Bart couldn't see anything in that doc's office to tie that man up with. "You wouldn't happen to have any rope; would ya'?"

The wounded man seemed confused, but he obligingly moved his eyes in such a way that he led Bart right to a set of saddle bags sittin' on a chair over in the corner. And, by gum, along with those bags he didn't just find a loop of rope, but a bank draft for five thousand dollars to boot.

Well, danged if this wasn't turnin' out to be a much better day than Big Bad Bart could ever have imagined.

XxXxX

**5**

Jubal Baker probably had the worst job in all of Virginia City—or the worst combination of jobs, to be more precise. By day, he mucked out stalls in the livery. By night, it was the spittoons over at the Bucket of Blood saloon. So whenever somethin' come around to help him think about anythin' other than horse droppings and slimy chaw…well, you could bet he'd be at the front of the crowd. And that's right where he was the minute he got word Big Bad Bart was holed up over at Doc Martin's.

But he sure didn't expect to see what he saw soon as that door come open. Maybe Big Bad Bart was standin' there and maybe he weren't, 'cause all Jubal saw was that youngest Cartwright boy. And that boy didn't look much better than the floor of the Bucket of Blood on any given Saturday night. Truth be told, that boy _looked_ like a bucket of blood. The shirt he wasn't quite wearin'—seein' as how it was all open in front—might have been gray at one time, but in that doorway there it looked red from collar to hem. There was a bloody bandage around the boy's throat, too.

The way Jubal saw it, Little Joe Cartwright looked to have one foot in the grave, although neither of his feet really looked to be goin' anywhere on their own anytime soon. One foot was angled kind of off, like; and the other was attached to a leg that had been swathed in bandages from knee to thigh. Nope. He sure weren't going anywhere on his own, not with those feet. Only thing keepin' him upright was the man standin' behind him, the man Jubal couldn't quite see.

That was how Jubal discovered Big Bad Bart weren't really all that big. With him standin' back there, hoisting up the littlest Cartwright like some too-big ragdoll, it was obvious the both of 'em was just about exactly the same height.

Yep. It sure was a sight, and Jubal couldn't help but laugh out loud seein' how small Big Bad Bart really was, right along with how that half-dead boy's hands was tied out front of him, like to keep him from fightin' back when it was clear there weren't no fight in him just then.

Yesiree, Jubal sure got his mind off of spit and…well…_horse droppings_, that's for sure. This was bound to be the best day he'd seen in a good long while.

XxXxX

**6**

Ben Cartwright was in a rare mood. Adam and Hoss were, too, for that matter. There was just something in the air that made it impossible to focus on…well, anything. He was tempted to call it spring fever, but he refused to utter those two words anywhere near his middle son. He would never understand why, but Hoss and spring fever were like oil and vinegar: They never did mix well.

Spring fever or not, Ben knew he wasn't going to get any real work done. When he caught sight of Adam leaning on a shovel and gazing up at nothing at all, it was clear his oldest son was in the same state of mind…but it was discovering Hoss lying down under a tree with his hat covering his eyes that decided him.

"Boys?" he shouted. "Go inside and get cleaned up."

"What?" Hoss asked groggily.

"Why?" Adam asked pensively.

"We are taking a holiday, today."

Hoss yawned. "A what?" he asked, scratching his ear.

"A holiday! Joe's already in Virginia City. What do you say we meet up with him? We could share a fine meal at the International House, and then have some laughs over at the Silver Dollar!"

"Laughs?" Adam asked, his eyebrows about reaching his hairline.

"The Silver Dollar?" Hoss asked, suddenly wide awake. "With you, Pa?"

It was enough to discolor Ben's cheerful mood. "Of course, with me! Why not with me?"

"Well, Pa, it's just…," Hoss stammered, "well…it's… It's a saloon, Pa!"

"I know perfectly well, it's a saloon!" Ben bellowed. "Don't you think I know a saloon when I see one? I've spent my fair share of time in saloons, you know!"

"You have?" Hoss's eyebrows vied with Adam's for how high they could climb.

"Of course, I have!" Ben grumbled, turning away. "Just…get changed and let's get moving!" He didn't have to turn back to know his sons were gaping at him. Fine! Let them gape! Ben Cartwright had as much right to drinking and carousing as any man! He might even be able to teach his sons a thing or two about…well..carousing.

By the time Ben opened his front door, he was grinning again. Yes! Today certainly was a fine day for a bit of carousing!

XxXxX

The ride in was the most enjoyable, most refreshing ride Ben had taken in years. He and his sons were joking and laughing as though they hadn't a care in the world. And that really was true, wasn't it? The Ponderosa had grown into something worth cherishing. And Ben's sons had grown into fine men in whom he could take great pride. Little Joe could still test him now and again, but Ben's youngest…. Yes, he was a fine, young man, too.

All in all, life was good for Ben Cartwright. And when he and his two oldest boys reached Virginia City to find a big hubbub going on about a bank robber taking a hostage over at Doc Martin's, catching sight of his old friend, Paul, on the walkway and very clearly safe was enough to let him know he needn't be concerned. The Cartwrights were always riding to the rescue of someone or another in that wild and unruly town. Today was their day off. If Roy Coffee needed help, he would ask for it.

But Ben's mood took a turn again when he decided to start with the carousing and save the meal part for later…_and_ when he decided that real carousing required something a bit more dynamic than the Silver Dollar. The minute he stepped through the swinging doors at the Bucket of Blood, old Sam at the bar gaped at him every bit as much as Ben had imagined his sons doing back at the ranch.

"What?" he asked gruffly. "Can't a man visit a saloon in the middle of the day for no particular reason except to quench his thirst?"

"Why, sure, Mr. Cartwright. But…but…."

"But what?" he shot back.

"Is…is it over already?"

"Is what over?"

"That…with…." Sam looked from Ben to his boys and back again. "Little Joe."

"What about Little Joe?"

"Is…is he…?"

"Is he _what_?" The more Ben looked at him, the more he realized the man looked awfully sick. Ben backed away from the counter, just in case, and then looked around for Jubal Baker. He was pretty confident there was going to be a mess to clean up any moment now.

"Is…." Sam gulped. "Is he de…um…still breathing?"

"Hey, Sam!" someone shouted in from the street. "Hurry up and get out here! They're takin' bets on whether or not Lil' Joe's gonna kick the bucket!"

Sam's sick look got a little lighter then. He flashed Ben a nervous smile as he dropped his apron on the counter. "Well, I'd…I'd better get. Way I hear it, it's a sure thing. I got kids to feed, you know!"

As far up as Ben's sons' eyebrows had gone earlier, they were doing the exact opposite now.

"You don't think…?" Hoss didn't even seem to know how to finish the question.

Yes, Ben decided. Little Joe was sure good at testing him. "Come on, boys," he said with a frustrated sigh. "We'd better see what sort of trouble your brother has got himself into now."

XxXxX

**7**

The street outside Doc Martin's office had taken on a carnival atmosphere. Folks from the mercantile and general store were selling candy and peanuts, men were waving around cash to cover their bets, and there was so much shouting and laughing going on Ben had to strain his ears to hear Roy Coffee's shouts for Big Bad Bart to…to _what_? Ben couldn't hear the rest.

He pushed through the crowd, determined to get a better look, or at least a better listen. Then he got both at the same time. He heard Roy shout for Bart to "Let that boy go," just as he caught sight of the outlaw struggling to keep a very bloodied and broken Little Joe on his feet.

Frankly, the outlaw looked pretty winded. It was clear Joe wasn't able to stand on his own. It was just a matter of time before Bart dropped his battered hostage altogether.

"Not until," Bart panted, "you let me ride outta here! I told ya'! I'll leave this boy outside a' town, soon as I see ya' ain't followed me!"

"You've got it!" Adam's shout beside him caught Ben by surprise. He turned to see his oldest son with a very smug look on his face.

"I…_what_?" Bart asked, clearly surprised to be talking to someone other than the sheriff.

"I'll give you my horse. He's already saddled."

"Good." Bart seemed confused. "Fine. Then bring it round and let's get this over with!"

"Are you taking Joe with you?" Adam asked, casually crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Already said I was, didn't I?"

Adam cocked his head. "How do you plan on getting him mounted?"

Bart started to shake; his muscles were strained almost beyond endurance. He shifted his grip. "What do you mean?"

"Are you going to lift him up there, yourself?"

"Well…sure. Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. Just looks to me like you're running out of strength."

Bart shifted his grip again, and glanced from Adam to Joe. "Then _you_ do it!"

Adam shrugged. "I suppose I could. But why would I?"

"What? Why would you? Hell, 'cause if ya' don't, I kill him, that's why!"

"How are you going to get away if you kill him? With all these people gathered here, you'll never reach the edge of town."

"Well…that's why I'm takin' him with me!"

Adam grinned. "That brings me back to my first question. How are you going to get him mounted?"

Bart looked from Adam to the sheriff to Joe, and then did the whole circle all over again. Then he scratched his head. Finally, he threw Joe to the ground. "Ah, Hell!" he said raising his hands before the sheriff even had to ask him to.

XxXxX

**8**

Evening had settled in by the time they got Joe's wounds all cleaned and stitched and set and…well, all the various things they'd had to do to fix him up. Through it all, Joe had let out a groan or two, but other than that, he'd hardly stirred. So when Roy Coffee paid the doc's office a visit after finishing up all his business with Big Bad Bart and the bank, there was plenty of room for conversation. And the conversation they had then was certainly a doozy.

In fact, when the editor for the _Territorial Enterprise_ stopped by afterward to get some statements, he wasn't sure he was willing to print any of it—aside from the largely witnessed and undeniably real bank robbery. Folks expect facts on a newspaper's front page. Fiction goes inside, and is clearly labeled as such. Printing Joe's story as fact was libel to label the _Territorial's_ editor as a fraud and a laughing stock.

The editor even did some laughing, himself. "A real live dead guy?" he asked the sheriff, snickering. "That boy really said that?"

Roy glanced at Ben and cleared his throat before answering. "Now you and I both know there's nothin' funny when a man's life's at hand!" Still, despite the words, even Roy started to chuckle.

"_Excuse_ me," Ben said brusquely before leaving them both so he could sit with his gravely injured son.

When he passed Hoss along the way, he noticed his middle son suppressing a smile. "I'm sorry, Pa," he snickered. "I know it ain't funny. But, well, it sort'a _is_ funny, too!"

Fortunately, Adam was as stoic as ever. "We still don't know who shot him," he said, his brows drawn as he tried to puzzle it out.

"Actually, Hoss, we do," a husky voice called in from the doorway. It was Eunice Barfinender, the biggest, ugliest female this side of…well, this side of anywhere! She had Harley Jones in a headlock and dragged him inside with her.

"Huh?" Hoss asked.

"Ain't talkin' to you!" Eunice said. "I'm talkin' to tall, dark and han'som, yonder."

"But you said, 'Hoss'?"

"Yeah? So? I call lots of folks, 'Hoss'!"

"Why?"

"Look mister, ya' want to know who shot pretty boy over there?" She nodded toward the bed and then curled her lip. "Well, he used to be pretty, anyhow."

Adam stiffened. "Did you see what happened?"

"Hell, no. But Harley, here, saw. Did more than _see_ it, truth be told, seein' as how it was him what done it! Tell 'em Harley!" She released him and pushed him forward.

"Ah, darlin'! Sweeti-pie! I told you I done it t'protect yer honor!"

"Don' matter why ya' done it! Fact is, ya' done it! Ya' got to own up to it!"

"But honey-bunny! He _laughed_! When I said he'd stolen yer affections, he laughed!"

"You told him _what_?" Adam asked, a grin already forming.

"I told him jest what I knew! My honey-bunny has eyes fer him, and I didn't like him stealin' her away from me!"

"Who I have eyes fer is my own, damn business!" Eunice said gruffly. "An' eyes ain't what counts, no how!" The way she eyed Harley almost made Ben's stomach turn. It looked an awful lot like an awful…well…_awful_ lust.

Adam's grin widened. "You thought Joe was stealing your…ahem…_woman_ away from you?"

"You gonna laugh, too?" Harley said, glaring at Adam. "'Cause if you do, ya' know I'm gonna have t'shoot ya'!"

Eunice smacked him on the back of his head. "Shut up, Harley! Now sheriff, you gonna lock him up, or what?"

Roy sighed, casting a look at Ben and shaking his head. "You confessin', Harley?"

Harley looked at Eunice. Eunice smacked him again.

"Yessir," Harley said without taking his eyes off of Eunice. "I reckon I am."

Roy nodded. "Alright, then. Eunice? Can you make sure he stays put, until we can see if Joe, here, wants to file charges?"

Eunice looked confused. "Aint' ya' gotta lock him up, sheriff?"

"Well, I could, if I figured he might try to run. But if I have a guarantee he'll stay put until we can get it all sorted and hold a fair trial, well, ain't no reason I have t'lock him up."

The woman's hard gaze melted then. "Ya' mean it, sheriff?" she asked, sounding hopeful. "I get to keep my honey-bear at home with me?"

"Yes'm. You sure can!"

"Oh, thank you, sheriff!" she said, pumping Roy's hand so hard Ben was almost sure she'd yank it right off. "I promise you he ain't goin' nowheres! He's stayin' right with me fer as long as you let 'im!" And then she kissed Roy sloppily on the cheek before pulling her 'honey-bear' back outside with her.

After Roy finished wiping her slobber with his handkerchief, even he started to giggle.

At that moment, Ben was appalled to discover that he and Joe were the only ones in the room who weren't laughing. But an instant later, it didn't matter, because he saw Joe's eyes flutter open.

"Son!" he cried out. "Joseph!" Moving to Joe's side, he took up the boy's limp hand and held it tightly in both of his. "You're going to be alright, now, son. There's nothing for you to worry about."

Joe's mouth worked around words he simply had no strength to voice.

"Don't try to talk, son. Just rest." He tried to smooth Joe's hair back and was disturbed to discover it matted with blood and mud and God knew what else. "You just rest, now," he added, pulling his hand away and looking around for something to wipe it on.

But Joe's eyes were pleading. He looked as though he was desperate to tell his father something.

Sighing, Ben glanced at the others in the room, and was momentarily pleased to see that none of them were laughing anymore. Then he bent down low to try and hear what Joe had to say.

And then…he went white. He found it impossible to breathe. Impossible to speak. He was afraid to look at the others.

"Pa?" Hoss called out to him. "What's wrong, Pa? What'd he say?"

Ben took a shaky, desperate breath.

"Pa?" Adam asked, alarm evident in his tone.

Ben knew he didn't stand a chance. He couldn't hope to hold it in any longer. "He…." Ben cleared his throat. "He said…." He shook his head, clearing his throat again.

"What is it, Pa?" Adam pressed.

"Your brother…said…." And then it happened. Ben snickered. "He had a bad day." And suddenly it was Ben who was laughing louder than anyone else. He laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes and his stomach rebelled. Before long, he was doubled over.

When his laughter was spent, Ben was ashamed to meet Joe's gaze, until he saw that even Joe was smiling.

"At least your bad day is finally at an end," Ben said, aiming to smooth Joe's hair again and then settling for the sheets when he realized he still had goop on his hand. "I'm sure we can all say, with absolute confidence, that tomorrow _will_ be better."

"Except maybe for Sam," Adam said. He waited for Ben to meet his gaze, then, grinning, he added, "He lost his bet."

XxXxX

_the end_


End file.
